We write because the tongue is too clumsy for truth.
We write because grief has sharp elbows,
and joy is a bird that will not be held in the fist.
At three in the morning, the city stops defending its lies.
The streetlight casts an amber halo on wet pavement.
Listen to the radiator breathing in the corner:
even cold metal remembers the forge.
You do not have to be extraordinary to be holy.
To breathe without cruelty for one hour
is enough to redeem a whole lineage of sorrow.
Stand still until the darkness no longer feels like a wall,
but a warm cloak woven from the stars
that forgot they were ever separated.